


The Crayola Project

by ceastman



Category: None - Fandom
Genre: American Politics, Current Events, Satire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 13:34:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9274334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceastman/pseuds/ceastman
Summary: A newly-minted President is eager to increase America's nuclear arsenal. The rest of the government isn't so keen on the idea. Hijinks ensue.(Note: This is a work of satire!)





	

The Crayola Project

by Catharine Eastman

 

 _“The United States must greatly strengthen and expand its nuclear capability until such time as the world comes to its senses regarding nukes”_ (posted to Twitter, December 22, 2016)

* * * * *

On Friday January 20, 2017, there was much eating, drinking, slapping of backs and self-congratulatory activity well into the night.

At nine AM on Saturday January 21, 2017, the President of the United States summoned his people.

“Okay. Is this thing on?” The President tapped the microphone on his desk and a _thock, thock_ noise came from the speakers. Everyone else tried not to shudder. It was a small room, but the President had demanded a microphone and speakers.

“Right. I expect you’re all wondering why I’ve called you here,” the President began.

Someone tried to point out that it was a weekend.

“Who was that?” the President yelled. “You’re fired!” He pointed a stubby index finger in the general direction of the comment.

A junior staffperson scuttled out of the room, horribly embarrassed, and later joined the Green Party. Everyone else in the room shut up fast.

“Are the Chinese resting today?” the President shouted. “They’re not! Because a new, strong President is in America today.” He paused, presumably for emphasis. “They are Not Resting. So we can’t either.”

“Sir?” someone asked. “What would you like us to —”

“Our nuclear arsenal needs work! If sanctions don’t work against the Chinese to force renegotiation of our trade agreements — and they won’t — and if sanctions don’t work against the Iranians to get them to stop building nuclear weapons — and they won’t — and if sanctions don’t work against ISIS — “ He turned, a brief look of puzzlement on his face. “Do we have sanctions against ISIS?”

A State Department senior official nodded grimly, and opened his mouth as if to speak. “We —

The President cut him off. “Yeah, well, I can tell you it’s not gonna work. So what do you think WILL work?”

Everyone looked at everyone else. There was a nervous silence.

The President rolled his eyes upward. “Come on, don’t all speak up.” He slammed his palms down on the expansive desk. “What. Do. We. Need?”

After another moment of dead silence, a voice near the back of the room squeaked, “Nukes, sir?”

“Thaaaaaaat’s right!” The President beamed, showing off tens of thousands of dollars of non-union boutique dental work. “C’mere young lady, you’re getting promoted.” He looked up at his staff manager. “Do I have a personal secretary yet?”

The staff manager responded immediately. “Three, sir, as of 4:42 this morning.”

“Fine. Now I got four. Talk to him,” the President told the woman, pointing to the staff manager. “He’ll get you set up first thing tomorrow.”

The woman tried to protest. “But, sir, I’m already Secretary of —”

The President dismissed her concerns. “I don’t care who you’re secretary of. As of right now, you’re directly under me. Any questions?” he dared her to ask.

The Secretary of the Interior pursed her lips and said nothing.

“Right. So. Nukes,” the President continued, “are what we need for all these situations. And probably others that’ll come up in the next three years.” He looked around and found someone he thought might be the Secretary of Defense. “How many nukes we got right now?” he demanded.

The Secretary hoped that the President couldn’t see him turn slightly paler as he answered. “Lots. Sir.”

“I need a number. Numbers are what we need here,” the President insisted.

The Secretary loosened his tie nervously. “Sir, that’s highly classified information. Not everyone here has the clearance to know that number,” he said, looking around the room.

The President gave the Secretary one of those beady-eyed Looks, the ones which doomed careers if not handled properly. “Look, just.. Just whisper it to me, okay?”

Eyebrows were raised around the room. The eyebrows raised even higher when the Secretary made his way around the antique desk behind which so many Leaders of the Free World had sat, leaned over, and whispered something into the President’s ear. After a surprisingly long moment, the Secretary finished whispering, stood up, and stepped back.

The president leaned back, eyes slit, fingers drumming on the desk. “That many, huh?” He looked at the Secretary.

The Secretary looked straight back at the President, the very picture of responsibility and truthfulness. “Yes, Sir.”

The President continued drumming his fingers. “Well, what about China? What do they have?”

The Secretary had thought that the ordeal was over and hadn’t been prepared for this question. He jumped and yelped, “Less!” He swallowed and recovered himself. “Um. Less, sir.”

“What about Iraq? And Iran? and ISIS?”

The Secretary’s forehead beaded with a fine sweat. “Less, sir. Less in every case.”

“Ha!” The President stood up and leveled a finger at the poor Secretary. “But what if you added up all the nukes in the world that weren’t American?” The President stuck his hands on his hips, proud of this zinger.

The sweat was obvious now. “Uh… still pretty sure we’d have more? Sir.”

“Well, I want ALL OF YOU,” the President leveled one of those Looks around the entire room, including everyone from the Secretary of Defense to his fourth personal secretary to the coffee pot, “to make it a TOP PRIORITY, to make sure that America not only has MORE nukes than the rest of the world COMBINED, but that they are THE BEST DAMNED NUKES that taxpayer money can buy! They need to have MORE BANG than the other guys! And they need to COST LESS! And let me make one thing clear. They need to be MADE IN AMERICA because AMERICA IS THE GREATest! Dismissed!”

There was a quiet pop and flash at the back of the room as the President finished. The sound technician, horribly embarrassed at having allowed the President’s shouting to overload a fuse, ducked behind the sound board and later joined the Electronic Frontier Foundation.

* * * * *

“Look, would you just handle it?” The middle-aged woman looked hassled as she spoke to her colleague.

“Handle what, exactly?” the Senator asked. He was also middle-aged, with glasses and just a touch of gray in his short dark hair.

“Everything.” The woman groaned. “I’ve got far too much on my plate chairing the Homeland Security and Government Affairs Committee to risk being turned into — into Personal Secretary Seven Hundred and Forty-One. I don’t want to have to be in the same room with that man unless absolutely necessary,” she stated. “You know the work of the Committee well enough to represent it, and you know the right people to do what needs to be done. Please, will you do this for me?” she almost begged.

The Senator agreed. “But I’m stepping down after this term,” he warned.

“Fine,” she said gratefully, and turned to go. “You’ll deserve it, given what you’ll have to deal with.”

* * * * *

Four people met shortly thereafter in a corner office of the Pentagon.

“He doesn’t know. He _can’t_ know.” There was an edge of panic to the first speaker’s voice.

A second speaker, more assured than the first one. “Obviously. He’s never taken the security briefings seriously. Why do you think he’d start now?”

A pause. “Senator.. you think we’re okay? That we can pull it off?”

A chuckle with just a hint of condescension. “You’re pretty new here, aren’t you?” The first voice gulped an affirmative. “You haven’t seen first-hand how slowly things can be made to move once they enter the grinding wheels of the federal bureaucracy. And,” the voice emphasized, “he’s going to be too distracted running the Presidential Twitter account to pay terribly close attention to much of anything.”

A third voice said, “But we’ll have to do something, right?”

The second speaker said, “Of course, General. We can’t let all those taxpayer dollars go completely to waste. Why don’t you come over tomorrow evening for a barbecue and drinks and we can plan out the whole thing? Oh, and Secretary,” the Senator turned to the Secretary of Defense, “What exactly did you tell him?”

* * * * *

Sunday afternoon the grills were lit at the Senator’s expensive yet understated Virginia home. Ribs sizzled, glasses clinked. Detailed plans were made, plans that would take the next few years to come to fruition if all went well. And the next morning, the enormous wheels of bureaucracy began ponderously to move.

* * * * *

The nuke project had been dubbed Project Crayola. All the government projects (particularly military ones) had such stupid names; the President figured they were probably drawn at random from some digital hat. He’d heard people in the hallways talking about the project, and they often mentioned some Fulghum guy. Maybe that was one of the head engineers for the project. If Fulghum was as important as he sounded, the President would make sure to pay him a visit sometime and thank him personally for his involvement.

* * * * *

Project Crayola had what was perhaps the most stupendous budget that had ever been known in the history of the United States government. Funds had been almost completely reallocated from the new Air Force One plane (“I’ll make a deal for a new private jet, it’ll be awesome, you’ll see,” said the President to anyone who asked) and the F-35 contract (“So I’ll make a deal for private jets for them too. With guns on them. Hey, maybe I’ll put some guns on mine too, that’ll make it EVEN MORE FANTASTIC,” enthused the President). Even though they always got the lion’s share of government spending, the Department of Defense had never seen anything like this budget before. One could practically see little cartoon dollar signs floating above everyone’s heads as they trotted excitedly down the halls of government.

Fortunately, the head office of the DOD had been given complete control over precisely how to spend the astounding amount of money devoted to Project Crayola. The President had made it clear that he didn’t want to be worried with the details; that was for the little people to deal with. The little people were perfectly content that this should be so. Had the President bothered to look into the somewhat curious distribution of funds, there would have been perfectly reasonable-sounding justifications for every dollar. Significant upgrades on weather satellites to study the climate? “We must carefully calibrate the nuke to perform at peak capacity under all possible weather conditions.” Grants to high school STEM programs? “We must train the next generation of scientists and engineers, so as to maintain our technological edge over rival governments.” Grants to college history and foreign language departments? “The next generation will only be able to successfully strategize against rival powers by leveraging those powers’ social constructs and even their very languages against them.” A sizable allocation for development of solar panel materials? “There must be backup propulsion methods on the nuke in the event that the rockets fail or there is insufficient fuel to reach an intended target.” Top-of-the-line Keurig and espresso makers for all office groups? “As you said yourself, sir, rival governments are hard at work too. Our employees must be able to outperform and outlast the competition.”

But the President never asked.

* * * * *

After almost two years of near-constant activity on the official White House Twitter account, the President remembered he had a nuke project going. He summoned everyone to one of his offices. His five hundred fifty-fourth personal secretary sat decorously to one side, fingers ready to tap a steno machine. (The President was of the opinion that personal secretaries used steno machines. The secretary didn’t have the foggiest idea how the thing worked; later she would type out something based on what her phone’s recorder app picked up.)

“Okay, people. I want a progress report,” the President said by way of introduction. “Tell me how Project Crayola —” he sneered at the name, “— is coming along. You,” he pointed randomly at an engineer who had the bad luck to be standing at the front of the group, “What progress have you made?”

Everyone else took the tiniest of steps backward.

The engineer nervously fumbled his smartphone out of his pocket, dropping it on the floor in the process. He paled and stammered an apology.

“Oh, for chrissakes,” the President sighed. “It’s not like I’m gonna fire you. Now pick up that thing and show me what you’ve got.”

The engineer picked up his phone, turned it on, and swiped away furiously for a moment or two. “Yessir. Yes. I’ve got a graph here,” as he came and showed the screen to the President, “showing production rate of the nuke for the past quarter and predicted production over the course of the next several quarters.”

The President frowned at the screen. “Make it so everyone can see that. It looks important.”

The phone was duly hooked up to a projection system. While there were no axis labels or titles, it was clear enough that after a certain point, the values would increase practically exponentially over time. The engineer indicated a point about halfway along the graph. “This is now, in spring 2019,” he said nervously. “So far there aren’t a lot of the nukes that have been made, but as you can see,” he indicated the upcoming steep rise, “production is getting ready to positively, ah, explode.” He grinned hopefully.

The President stared at the engineer. “Was that,” he asked after a long silence, “a joke?”

“Uh… yes?” The stare transformed slowly, horrifyingly, into a Look. “No! No sir! Production is really set to skyrocket in the near future!”

There was another pause as the engineer’s face turned a bright crimson as he realized what he’d said..

“..oh no..” whispered the engineer into the silence.

“FIRED! You are FIRED,” yelled the President. “You clearly fail to realize that this is a SERIOUS MATTER of the UTMOST IMPORTANCE!”

The engineer, hopelessly embarrassed, skulked away and later moved to Vermont. He hoped someone would find a way to return his phone to him.

“Nonetheless,” the President continued, “that’s great news, fantastic news. And when the American people know —”

“Sir?” The Secretary of State dared to interrupt.

The President looked over at the Secretary. “What?”

“This information is, um, classified. The public isn’t allowed to know specifics like this.”

“Dammit,” the President muttered. “Would have been the tweet of the night, too.” He clenched one hand into a fist and chewed at his knuckles thoughtfully.

There was another pause.

A thought clearly struck the President. “I want to see it,” he said, looking up. “Gimme a tour of those munitions factories. I want to see progress being made for myself. Even if I’m not allowed to tell anyone about it,” he growled.

Concerned glances were exchanged around the room. The Senator caught the eye of Personal Secretary Number Five Hundred Fifty-Four, and gave the slightest nod. She said, “Sir, your schedule’s just packed full of events that it’s vitally important that you, as the President of the United States, must attend for the next —” She gave an imperceptible glance at the Senator’s hand, and caught the brief signal. “Three weeks, sir.”

“Really?” The President seemed surprised. “What on earth is scheduled that takes precedence over a nuke factory inspection?”

She pulled out her smartphone and inspected it. “Lunches with several diplomats, presenting the high school fitness challenge awards at several participating schools, a prayer breakfast, hosting two elementary school tours of the White House, and ribbon-cutting ceremonies at several new stadiums. All of which,” she finished, “absolutely require the presence of the President of the United States.” She looked back at the President.

“Fine, fine,” the President waved away the distraction. “Put it on my calendar as soon as you can. I want to see those able-bodied Americans, putting their sweat into American-made nukes! Dismissed!” Everyone filed out rapidly.

* * * * *

“Do you think he recognized the graph?”

A guffaw. “Kid, he doesn’t believe in climate change. I bet he’s never even seen it before.”

* * * * *

More than just the overarching shape of Project Crayola had been sketched out at that barbecue a couple of years back. Contingencies had been foreseen, detailed plans had been made, and the primary groundwork had been laid some time ago. It only required a few weeks for the finishing touches to be put into place.

Government warehouses which had lain largely idle for months suddenly saw activity. Auto body shops were happy to sell will-never-run-again clunkers to the government; the clunkers were transported to metallurgists and craftspeople to be transformed into other, more sinister shapes. And those shapes made their way to the warehouses. Assembly lines had been constructed from other bits and pieces, sometimes rescued wholesale from long-defunct factories which were delighted to see any sort of return from the ancient equipment. Walkways were constructed, well above the work floor (“So as to avoid any potential danger to your person, Sir”): close enough to view people obviously working, but too far to see much detail.

And people were hired to staff each of five such work floors. (It was expected that the President would visit no more than three sites, but it never hurt to be overprepared.) Their jobs would be neither arduous nor long-lasting. In fact, training the people in the movements they would have to make, over and over again, in front of the President of the United States, would take many more hours than the actual time they would be on the work floor. The people didn’t mind; they were getting full pay and full benefits for the training period as well as the work period, and would get a surprisingly large contribution to their retirement plans given the short time involved. They would wear the grubby overalls and pull the levers and turn the cranks and do whatever other empty motions the government people set them.

“But why —” one enterprising young woman started to ask.

“It’s for the good of the country,” one of the managers said.

The woman looked askance at the conveyor belt. Thin metal cones arrived on the workfloor at one end of the belt. Various manipulations were performed in the general vicinity of the cones which affected them not in the least. The cones then disappeared through a small door at the end of the conveyor belt, and, she suspected, came right back out to the floor again moments later. Then she stared at the manager.

“It’ll look better with the smoke machines on,” the manager promised.

* * * * *

In the event, the President only had attention for one and a half sites.

The visit to the first site went as well as anyone could have wished. The President ascended the red-carpeted metal stairway up to the catwalk. The work floor was filled with lights, noise, smoke, and movement. People working the assembly line applied themselves to ferocious-looking metal cones. Heavy welding arms were maneuvered back and forth, and sparks of all colors flew. Huge crates were ported back and forth on miniature tractors. Everyone on the floor was clearly working hard. The President shook the hands of a few of the workers as he exited the building. “Thank you, thank you so much,” he enthused. “You’re all doing such a wonderful job, I’m so impressed by all of you.” He waved to the small crowd of people who had gathered as he boarded his plane. The crowd waved back dutifully.

The visit to the second site started much the same: red carpet, noise, smoke and sparks. The President was looking over all of the activity and discussing local baseball scores with the somewhat nervous manager, when he saw something.

A man near the end of the line had been inspecting each of the cones, holding each one critically up to the light, before putting them back on the line. He fumbled one of the cones and dropped it, where it fell to the floor with a clatter.

“What was that?” he yelled. “Stop everything THIS INSTANT!”

The floor became suddenly, magically quiet… except for the metal cone rattling as it rolled noisily under the line. When it finally stopped, dead silence reigned.

But only for a moment. “You’re FIRED!” shouted the President, pointing at the unhappy inspector. “My god, you could have blown this whole factory to smithereens if that nuke had gone off!” He stormed along the catwalk. “This is a BOMB factory, for crying out loud! You have to be CAREFUL!”

The ‘inspector,’ hopelessly embarrassed, walked dejectedly out of the building. (He later joined Local #435.)

The manager was practically weeping in apology, but the President dismissed him. “Not your fault that guy was a total klutz,” he said. “But I’ve seen enough here. Actually, you know?” He turned to one of his staff. “I’m done for the day. You seen one factory, you seen them all.” The staffperson nodded. “Get me some lunch,” the President continued, “and we’ll call it a day.”

Fifteen minutes later, the President was aboard his jet.

* * * * *

“Visited nuke factories in Detroit MI and Stockton CA today. Fantastic to see so many loyal Americans hard at work to defend this great country!” was the tweet that the President thought he sent out that evening.

But it wouldn’t do to have the press alerted to Project Crayola, so a White House intern carefully edited the tweet before it was posted to read, “Visited factories in Detroit MI and Stockton CA today. Fantastic to see so many loyal Americans hard at work in this great country!” The intern knew that the President wouldn’t notice the change; he kept careful tabs on the number of likes and retweets he got, but never looked at the text of the tweet again, let alone the timestamp.

* * * * *

Like Potemkin’s villages, the factories melted away only hours after the President’s departure. The rented smoke machines were returned. The scrap metal was repurposed for installation art projects. The people who had manned the work floors applied their new training to other jobs: high school drama teachers, painters, construction, and even a few welders who had taken real interest in what the factories had supposedly been doing. Everyone went home a little wealthier and a little happier.

* * * * *

A year later, the President demanded another update on Project Crayola. “All those factories have been producing nukes like mad all this time, right?”

“Like mad, sir,”

“So where are all of them?”

“The, um, nukes, sir?”

“Of course, the nukes!” The President slapped his desk. “Am I the only one who pays attention around here?” he yelled, looking around the room.

Subdued murmurs of “no, sir” ran around the room.

“So where are they?” the President asked.

A man — the President thought it was a Senator, maybe on the Homeland Security and Governmental Affairs Committee — stepped forward. “The nukes are being stored around and in missile silos in strategic locations around the country, sir.” The Senator paused before adding, “Would you like a tour of the silos?”

“Nah.” The President waved the suggestion away. “I don’t have time for another goddamn tour. You go,” he indicated the Senator, “and take some real good photos of them.”

“Whatever you say, sir. I’ll arrange it.”

As the Senator turned away, he could hardly help but smile. Photos were _easy_.

 

* * * * *

Three days later, the Senator sent an email to the President. It contained several images of missiles loaded in silos, mounted on trucks, and bulging from the bellies of fighter planes. The President called him to his office to discuss the images.

“These are great! Really fantastic!” the President said enthusiastically. “You got so much detail in these shots! But one thing I don’t understand,” the President said. “Why do the nukes have kinda different shapes in the different photos?”

“Ah,” said the Senator, “Excellent observation, sir. The fin and nose designs vary based on the prevailing wind and weather conditions in the regions they are stored -”

“So they fly farther, better, faster? That’s great.” The President seemed content with the answer, and the Senator quietly breathed once more.

“Oh. One other thing, sir.” The Senator dug in his briefcase. “I picked this up for you while I was at one of the sites. I thought you might like it as a desk ornament.” He handed a box to the President.

The President read the type on the box aloud. “Guided Missile Bank.” He laughed. “Really? That’s cute.” He pulled the metal model out of the box and set it upright on its tail fins on a corner of his desk. “Will it take off if I put a quarter in?” he grinned.

“Not… yet, sir. But,” the Senator hurriedly continued, seeing the look of disappointment on the President’s face, “I’m sure it can be appropriately modified.”

The President looked positively delighted. “Just imagine the looks on the faces of the diplomat from China when I have him in next week! He’s gonna think this is HYSTERICAL!” he beamed.

“As you say, sir.” The Senator carefully replaced the bank in its box and put it all back in his briefcase. Part of him hated the idea of modifying such a nice vintage 1950s toy, but if it kept the President happy and distracted, he would pay the price. At least he had been able to leave the photos, which were all from the same time period as the bank, essentially untouched.

* * * * *

It was the end of 2020, and close to the end of the President’s first (and only) term. He had chosen not to run for reelection. “You know, I’ve been there and done that. And this great country America is even greater because of it,” he told people. “But it’s time for me to go off and do even more amazing things. Just wait, you’ll see,” he promised. “It’s gonna be great.”

He confided in Personal Secretary #3586 that he had been hoping to see the results of Project Crayola before he left office.

“I’ll set something up, sir. Enjoy your holiday vacation,” she added.

The President waved at her as he walked out the door.

* * * * *

The Senator called the President a few hours later. “I understand you wanted to see Project Crayola, sir.”

“Hey, thanks for calling. Yeah. Would it be possible to set up a demo?” asked the President.

All eventualities had been planned for, including this one. “Of course, sir. Would December 28 do?”

“Fine, fine,” the President said. “Set it up. Bring it here.”

There was a tiny pause as the Senator digested the request. “To your vacation home, sir?”

“Yeah. That won’t be a problem, will it?”

“Well, normally such demos and tests are done, um, at a bit of a distance from civilization. The Nevada desert is a traditional location for above-ground tests.”

A pause on the President’s side. “I thought that’s where Area 51 was.”

The Senator coughed. “That too, sir.”

“Eh, whatever. Nevada’s too far to bother with. Just bring it here, will you? There’s a hilltop a little ways out of town that I was thinking of leveling and turning into a golf course anyway. It’ll be fine.”

“If… if you’re certain, Sir.”

“Yep. Do it. What?” the President yelled to someone in the room. “Yeah, gimme a sec here, it’s business. I mean government.” The President spoke into the phone again. “Okay, I gotta go.”

“All right. I’ll be there with Project Crayola next week, Sir. Merry Christmas,” the Senator said.

He hung up. The hilltop would be fine for the demonstration, though the President would have to find some other way to reshape the hill when all was said and done.

* * * * *

The Senator arrived at six PM on Monday, December 28, 2020. In addition to his regular briefcase, he also carried a larger metal box with lots of impressive-looking locks securing it. He’d asked the head of the Homeland Security and Governmental Affairs committee if she wanted to be present at the final unveiling, but she’d given him a Look practically as potent as any of the President’s and flatly refused. The General, however, had agreed to be there and was waiting for him at the tiny local airport. “Good to see you,” the General said as the Senator stepped into the public area. “Ready to show off our little beauty?” The General led the Senator outside where a limo idled. The driver came around to open the passenger door. The tropical air was warm and humid.

“As ready as I’m ever likely to be.” The Senator slid in first, the metal box held carefully on his lap. He shook his head ruefully. “Not that I’m sorry that I’m leaving office. It gives one a certain sense of…” he searched for the word, and found it: “Freedom.”

The General agreed. “I turned in my retirement request last week. I’ve been in this job much too long.” He crossed his legs and leaned back. “Looking forward to going home?”

“Am I ever!” The Senator stretched, and followed the General’s example. “Can’t wait. Like you said, it’s been much too long.”

“I’ve forgotten. Where is home, for you?”

“Texas.”

They were quiet as the driver got back into his seat and started the car.

“You know something?” the Senator continued.

“What’s that?”

“It’ll be nice to finally tell the man the truth for a change,” the Senator said quietly.

The General nodded in sympathy as the car moved away from the curb.

* * * * *

The demo had been set for seven PM. A second limo had picked up the President from his home, and both vehicles were now headed away from the test site. The limos had been instructed to return at nine. The President had been convinced not to bring any of his guests or family members with him, despite his protestations that the grandkids would have loved it. There was the matter of national security and state secrets, after all.

The sun was setting as the three men set up camp at a picnic table. The General produced a couple of bags from which came forth burgers, fries, and beer. The Senator put his metal box on another table about fifty feet away from the other men and started fiddling with the locks. The President unwrapped a burger and chomped down hard. “Hey, these are pretty good,” he said around a mouthful of ground beef. “Where’d you find them?”

The General unwrapped a burger of his own. “From a spot downtown that I found on Yelp. They source all their ingredients from local organic small farms.” The President looked mildly bemused. “Um, everything’s 100% American,” he simplified.

The President nodded his appreciation. “100% American. What a beautiful, beautiful word,” he said thoughtfully.

The General declined to comment further, being busily engaged with his fries.

The President popped open a bottle of beer. Foam ran over the mouth of the bottle, and the General tried not to wince. “Hey,” the President called over to the Senator, “Come on over and enjoy this stuff while it’s still warm.”

“Almost done, Sir,” the Senator responded. He set a small rocket-shaped device on a nearby grill. No point in needlessly risking fires, after all. He sat down at the table opposite the General and the President. “Anything left for me?” He smiled winningly.

“Here,” the General passed him the bag. “Save room for dessert — there’s watermelon and cupcakes.”

“Thanks.” The Senator took the proffered bag and dug in. The burger really was very good: cooked to juicy pink perfection, with just enough char to give a satisfying textural contrast to the tender meat within.

The President had finished his burger and fries and was kicking back a second beer. As he put the bottle down, he gazed good-naturedly at the little device sitting on the grill. “Well, gentlemen, this is all very nice and all, very chummy, but we did come here for a purpose. Right?”

The General and the Senator glanced at each other. The sun had completely set by this time — perfect conditions for the demonstration. The General asked the Senator, “Everything’s set to go?” The Senator nodded.

The General opened his briefcase and passed a small tablet to the President. “We thought you’d like to do the honors, sir.” The President took the tablet with what was meant to be an air of solemnity, but his tremendous grin gave away his excitement. “You’ll just need to type in the nuclear code here,” the General indicated.

The President growled, “Do you know, four years in office, and nobody ever bothered to give me the nuclear codes?” He harrumphed. “I trust you’ll give them to me now.”

The General contrived to look apologetic. “Of course, Sir.” He got out a piece of paper and scribbled on it. “You’ll need to destroy that piece of paper after you’ve read it, naturally.” He passed the note to the President.

The President gazed at the piece of paper. Then he looked at the General, puzzled. “I thought the nuclear codes would be… I dunno, longer.”

The General coughed. “We changed them to be more, um, accessible,” he said.

“Oh? Well, that’s very thoughtful of you,” the President responded. He carefully tore the note into tiny pieces, and ate them. He made a face. “I know that’s the traditional way of destroying messages after you read them, but really…” He took a swig from his bottle. “Ugh. That’s better.”

The General coughed again. “Actually, we generally burn physical notes these days, Sir,” he said.

“Huh. The things you learn,” the President replied. He took the tablet. “So I just type in the code here?” he asked.

The General nodded.

The President peered at the glowing pad. He extended his stubby index fingers, and slowly typed:

B

A

N

then there was a pause as he hunted. After a moment he found it:

G

He looked up. “That was it, right? When does it —”

The Senator shushed him, and pointed towards the device on the grill. “Watch.”

A humming and a buzzing was emanating from the small bomb-shaped device. Tiny sparks emanated from the bottom into the safety of the grill. The buzzing resolved into a tinny rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” As the President watched in fascination, the pointed top of the device opened, flowerlike. Fountains of sparks erupted from the flower, and something started rising up out of the device. It looked like a stick.

“Just wait, you’ll see,” the Senator promised in response to the President’s puzzled look.

The stick rose higher. It was accompanied by — _sparklers?_ thought the President. Indeed, several lit sparklers were now visible, set at jaunty angles. Confetti and streamers shot out of the device as the stick quivered and shook to reveal a glittering sign: _Happy New Year!_ The whole arrangement rotated as the music played.

When the music finished, the sign folded itself back up. It and the now-extinguished sparklers retracted slowly back into the device. The flower closed up, and the device stood quietly on the grill once more.

Thirty seconds or so passed in complete silence.

The President leaned back. “Is… is that it?”

After another moment, the Senator responded. “Yes, Sir.”

The President frowned. “But I thought there was supposed to be…” He gesticulated vaguely.

“An earth-shattering kaboom?” the Senator finished sardonically. “No, Sir.”

The President’s mouth dropped open, and he made incoherent astonished noises.

“Perhaps we should explain,” the Senator said. The President managed to close his mouth once more and nodded angrily.

“It’s like this, Sir,” the General began. He opened a bottle of beer and swigged. “After the Cuban Missile Crisis in 1962, Kennedy called Kruschev to have a private talk. They agreed that nuclear weapons were an abomination and signed a _permanent, binding, secret_ agreement —” he emphasized the adjectives, “— to not only cease all production of nuclear weapons, but to systematically destroy the weapons that had been accumulated. Both men reached out to their respective allies, and the agreement spread. Every nation on Earth is secretly a signatory to the agreement,” he finished in satisfaction.

“But, but…” The President was clearly confused. “All the news stories. About countries having them. And storing them. And threatening to use them.” He looked at the two men. “What about that?”

“To put not too fine a point on it, sir,” the Senator replied, “that was all lies. Lies and propaganda, carefully put out by the governments at specific times to manipulate the people. You know how that works,” he said.

A dim light started to dawn in the President’s face. “And all they have,” he gestured towards the device, “are… things… like that?”

The General nodded decisively. “There’s still conventional weaponry, of course. Which gets to be someone else’s problem,” he added in a mutter. “But nuclear weapons are gone for good.”

“Huh.” The President was momentarily quiet. The stars were out now, and crickets chirped in the fields below them. An owl hooted in the trees nearby. The General took advantage of the pause to pass around the promised cupcakes and watermelon.

The President crunched into the melon. “What about us?”

“Sir?” the Senator asked around a mouthful of chocolate frosting.

The President swallowed his mouthful. “Us. Are all of our so-called nukes the same as this one?” he asked.

The General nodded. “Pretty much.” He wiped his mouth. “They come in a variety of sizes, and with seasonally appropriate messages.”

“All of them?” the President asked. “All — hang on a sec...” He dug his phone out of his pocket, swiped at it for a moment, and then read aloud. “All six hundred and sixty-six brillion, three hundred and seven killian, four hundred and sixty-two cotillion —” the General’s jaw was slowly dropping as the recitation proceeded, “— nine hundred and forty-three prillion, two hundred and seventy-one zillion, seven hundred eighty-nine billion, eight hundred and ninety-four million, five hundred thirty-five thousand, one hundred and thirty-seven?”

After a few seconds of dead silence, the Senator breathed, “You… you remembered, Sir.”

The President looked at him quizzically. “Well, _duh_. It was an impressive-sounding number, so I wrote it down. I thought I might not be able to keep it all straight otherwise.”

The General hastily shut his open mouth. The Senator smoothly answered, “Each and every one of our so-called nukes, sir, is like this one.”

The President digested the statement. He took a bite of cupcake. “Oh, hey. Next time, try the kind with cream in the middle. They’re great,” he advised the General, who mumbled a noncommittal “Um,” into his watermelon.

There was another lull in the conversation. The stars were coming out, and a soft warm breeze rustled in the trees.

“One thing,” the President finally said. “Are all of these ..Crayola bombs.. Please. Tell me just one thing,” he asked.

“What’s that, Sir?” the General said.

“At least they’re 100% made in America, with 100% American parts, right?” He looked at the two men.

The General looked at the Senator, who scratched behind an ear. “Well… it’s almost 100% American.”

The President glared at the Senator. “Excuse me, what did you say? Whaddya mean, almost?”

The Senator answered slowly, “The sparklers... in the devices…”

“Yeah? What about the sparklers?” the President cut in.

The Senator looked a little sheepish. “Well, the sparklers… the sparklers are from China.”

“What??!?” the President yelled. He pounded the table and stood, a little unsteadily.

“The sparklers are Chinese,” the Senator repeated. He ran his hand through his hair. “It’s part of the nonproliferation agreement. China demanded, um, certain trade concessions in return.”

“You’re FIRED!” yelled the President.

The Senator was relatively unembarrassed, and he stayed where he was. “I’m leaving the Senate at the end of this term already, Sir.”

But the President wasn’t listening. He paced back and forth, gesticulating. “I swear, I give ONE little order, and there were AMERICAN jobs that could have been created as a result…” He breathed hard, and sat down abruptly. “I just wanted to show the American people what I could do,” he said softly.

“Don’t worry, Sir. You’ve shown them,” the Senator consoled him. “Believe me, there were more jobs created as part of Project Crayola than you could possibly imagine.”

“And the military has been extremely grateful for your unprecedented support,” the General added.

“Everyone who’s worked under your administration will have a wealth of stories to tell their children and grandchildren,” the Senator promised.

“Really?” The President looked up at the other men.

“Really.”

The President looked somewhat comforted. “Thank you. And you know what, gentlemen?”

The Senator exchanged glances with the General. “What, sir?”

“I’m still President,” the President said, a little owlishly. “I can still do something.”

The General asked cautiously, “What did you have in mind, sir?”

“I bet,” the President leaned forward his palms on the table, a gleam of determination in his eyes, “that I can cut us a better deal on those damned sparklers. You’ll see.”

THE END

By Catharine Eastman, 2017. This work is released under a CC BY-NC-SA (Creative Commons Attribution Non-Commercial Share-Alike) license.


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